Be Brave
by crazychick14
Summary: We're all told to be brave. We all assume we are brave, that we are unstoppable. That we are invincible. But tragedy forces us to see how brave we truly are- in more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Alright, my first Sherlock fic and I'm starting off by adding in an OC. Most sane writers would call that a bad idea.**

**However, I'm not quite sane.**

**This is not the kind of OC you're thinking of. Not the typical new-girl-in-town romance with Sherlock or John. This is going to be complicated.**

**This is the story of Hannah. And it's one you'll want to read.**

* * *

Snow fell outside 221B, Baker Street, London, England. It was mid-December. Sherlock Holmes's cell phone let out the ringtone that Sherlock hadn't cared enough to change from the default. As usual, the world's only consulting detective was busy looking at something under a microscope.

"John!" he called into the interior of the flat. After a minute, John Watson walked into the sitting room and looked at his friend.

"Yes, Sherlock?" he asked, clearly agitated. He was in his pajamas- after all, it _was _one o'clock in the morning, an ungodly hour to be awake. But not for Sherlock Holmes. His head jerked towards his ringing cell phone with a single nod, and John knew what to do. He went over to Sherlock and picked up the shiny black phone that laid on the table right next to Sherlock's arm. He brought the phone to his ear, yawning out a morphed "hello?"

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock glanced up at John, then back down. But he did a double take and looked back up at him when he saw the look on his only friend's face.

It was stricken. Shocked. Uncomprehending.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

He stood and went to John, taking a spot right in front of him. John brought his eyes up to meet Sherlock's, and the look was unmistakable. Something bad had happened, and that something involved Sherlock Holmes. The man noted the crease in John's eyebrow, the look of sympathy in his eyes. Someone had died, John always got that look when someone-

The phone came down from his ear and John pressed the button to end the call, handing the phone back to Sherlock. He took it, not breaking eye contact.

"What is it?" He asked.

"…there was a car accident," John said finally, still in a state of shock. "On Rotherhithe Tunnel. The car, ah… slipped on black ice and crashed."

"Why is this important?" Sherlock asked, starting to get bored. But he snapped to attention when John explained.

John sighed. "There were four people involved in the crash. Two adults, a man and a woman, a young girl, about seven years old, and a fifteen-year-old girl. Everyone died, except for the fifteen-year-old. But they did a DNA test on her, and… Sherlock, they found something. She's related to you.

"She's your daughter."

* * *

Hannah's POV

_"Be brave, Hannah."_

I've heard those words all my life. When I got hurt and Mum would comfort me. She would tell me to be brave. When the other kids would make fun of me in school and I would come home crying, she would tell me the same thing.

"_Be brave, Hannah._"

Those words are engraved in my mind. I think them when I get scared. Being brave is not a new concept to me.

But now I really have to be brave.

Growing up without a father is difficult. Not knowing who my biological father _is _has proven to be considerably more difficult. I used to imagine my father was a king, ready to whisk me away to his castle in the sky in a golden coach, pulled by four white horses. As I got a bit older, maybe five or six, that changed to a celebrity. Maybe he was a famous actor, or a singer. At eight, early after my birthday, I gave up on the imaginations and began pestering Mum. She talked about him, but never told me his name. Whenever I asked, she got all distant, and said, "You'll know when you're older, love." Then she got quiet.

She married Will West when I was eight. They were the perfect match- they complimented each other in every way. Molly, my stepsister, was born when I was nine.

She was seven when she died.

When I was fifteen, Mum and Will took Molly to her first circus in the city. I got to go, of course. On the ride home, Molly was buzzing in the back seat about the trapeze artists and elephants, and how _did _all of those clowns fit in that tiny little car?

_Be brave, Hannah._

My mother's voice hit me like a ton of bricks. But she wasn't speaking- the voice was in my head. But why did I need to be brave _now_?

The car slipped into the opposite lane.

Will screamed. Mum screamed. I grabbed Molly and looked her dead in the eyes.

"Be brave, Molly," I whispered.

Everything shattered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, no reviews for the first chapter. I can deal with that. I'm not a popular author but I like writing. So here's chapter two! Note: I don't own Sherlock.**

* * *

Two hours later, Sherlock and John pulled up next to the St. Thomas Hospital in Paddington. John paid the taxi driver as Sherlock went inside the doors to the emergency room entrance and headed straight to the front desk. The receptionist on duty looked up from organizing her desk for the eleventh time and stared up at the man on the other side of the glass.

"How can I help you?" She asked dully, turning on her computer. There was something about that man she recognized, maybe on the news or in the papers. But she couldn't place his face for some reason.

"I need to see Hannah West," he said quickly. He watched as her fingers flew across the keyboard and searched up his daughter. His _dying _daughter.

"Yes, here she is," the receptionist said finally and printed out a piece of paper. "Room 503A. Fifth floor, turn right at the elevators once you get up there." She handed him the paper. It had information on it- hours of visitation, Hannah's date and time of admittance into the hospital, and her room number. "Can I have your name?" She grabbed a pen.

"Holmes," he mumbled, reading the sheet. "Sherlock Holmes."

Her head shot up and she looked at him. It was _him_! Famous, the world's only consulting detective, was standing right in front of her! She quickly stopped staring with a blush, chastising herself for her behavior, and handed him the red pen. "Just sign on the bottom of the sheet," she instructed him. He hurriedly did so, scrawling out a messy '_SH_' on the bottom of the paper.

"Sherlock," John said as he came up behind him. "Can we see her?" Sherlock nodded quickly and handed him the pen. "Sign," he said quickly and handed him the sheet. John signed his full name quickly next to Sherlock's initials and gave the pen to the receptionist.

"Thank you," he said and followed Sherlock to the elevators. The detective pressed the up button repeatedly, waiting for the doors. A woman in a wheelchair, accompanied by a man and a doctor, wheeled up to the elevator and waited next to Sherlock. He eyed them carefully, making observations without even thinking about it. She was newly pregnant; he was worried about her and had forced her to go to the doctor. There wasn't really anything wrong.

The doors dinged and slid open. Sherlock went inside, tugging John behind him. He pressed the 'door close' button, keeping the woman and her companions from the elevator as the doors shut. John looked at him.

"Sherlock-"

"Shut up, John."

"But you just-"

"I know."

"Why did you-"

"Hit the button for the fifth floor already and stop talking. I need to focus." John looked down and noticed Sherlock's hands were shaking. That look in his eyes… he was nervous. John sighed and pressed the glowing yellow button with the number five on it. The elevator shot up, and in about 23 seconds, they opened onto a new floor. Pristine white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting, doctors running around frantically with clipboards and plastic gloves and fatigue in their eyes. Sherlock looked around, having never liked hospitals. He finally just grabbed a doctor and pulled him aside, holding his coat with both hands by his collar.

"503A. Take me there, _now_!" he growled. The doctor quickly nodded and led them down the crowded hallway. They took a right and walked exactly eleven steps before turning left, walking thirteen steps, and stopping in front of a door. The sign next to the door said _503A_.

"I'll need to see your identification before I can admit you," the doctor said, looking Sherlock over. He sighed and pulled the crumpled piece of paper he had taken from the receptionist from his pocket and uncrumpled it. The doctor took it and scanned it over, then nodded and opened the door, stepping aside to let Sherlock and John in.

The windows were closed, curtains drawn. The room threatened suffocation over Sherlock without fresh air from outside. Or maybe that was just his heart jumping up into his throat right now. Light came from the bright, white fluorescent light on the ceiling. The bed was against the wall, with space on both sides. The smell of antiseptic reached Sherlock's nose. A chair sat next to the bed on the left, a small table on the other side. Another chair sat in the corner, shrouded in shadow.

Finally, Sherlock brought his eyes to her.

Her raven-black hair was pushed back from her sleeping face. The light cast shadows over her face, making her look worse than she was, he thought. A bandage was wrapped around her forehead, and her face was covered in small cuts from shards of glass. A bruise made the skin around her right eye about four different colors. An IV needle was in the inside of her right elbow. A heart monitor on the right side of her bed showed her unsteady heartbeat. Her left arm was in a white cast, up to her elbow but letting her fingers free. She looked pale and broken.

And that was just the parts of her body he could _see_. He didn't want to think about the injuries that tormented her from under the thin, blue hospital blanket.

His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He wanted to go to her. He didn't. He wanted to run out the door. He didn't. He wanted to hit something. He didn't. Instead, he just stood there, staring at her.

"Why is she asleep?" He finally managed to get the words from his throat and his head jerked toward the doctor a bit.

"We had to put her in a medically induced coma," the man in the coat explained. "The injuries she sustained were… to put it lightly, very bad."

"…how old is she now?" His voice was softer now, more pained. The doctor took the clipboard hanging on the end of her hospital bed.

"Her dental records show she's fifteen. She'll be sixteen in a few months."

Sherlock stared down at her. He had never even known… sixteen years old means he was 21 when she was born. Suddenly, it hit him.

_The lights of the bar. The noise of the music, the rich brown color of the drink in front of him. It was the night of Sherlock Holmes's 21__st__ birthday and, as most people do on their 21__st__ birthdays, he had gone out for a drink with a few friends. Before he had become so deep in his work, before he had lost his friends and gained just one other, many years later. It was celebratory, and his night got even better when _she_ sat down next to him._

_She was stunning from the moment he laid eyes on her. Blonde hair that fell in waves to the middle of her back, exhilarating emerald eyes, and what had to be the body of a goddess. He couldn't stop staring at her, no matter how much he reminded himself that staring was rude. He cleared his throat._

_"Hello," he said, turning to her._

_"Evening," she responded with a small nod of her head and a smile. Oh, that smile could melt glaciers! Move mountains! It practically stopped his heart. Maybe it was the beer, or the adrenaline, but he couldn't help himself from making a move._

_"May I buy you a drink, miss?" He asked. She smiled again and nodded._

_The night went on. He found himself saying things, honest things, just to see her smile again. After what had to be hours, she suggested they go back to his place. He immediately obliged- the thought of spending more time with her made him both excited and nervous at the same time. They got in a cab. He didn't let go of her hand until they got out._

_She was gone in the morning._

It was her. That night, that _had _to be the night, it _had _to be the girl! He had never known. It occurred to him that he had never gotten her number; he had never contacted her again. But he hadn't known she had gotten _pregnant_! And now she was dead, and his daughter, his own flesh and blood, was lying on a hospital bed, comatose.

John cleared his throat, bringing Sherlock to the surface from his trance. "She'll come live with us in the flat, of course," he said. "We've got enough space. How long do you expect to be keeping her here, doctor?"

"Well, we don't know how long her coma will last," the doctor said, checking some of the wires plugged into her that kept her from dying. "But once she wakes up… I would expect at least three months, to get her back to normal."

Sherlock closed his eyes. Opened his mouth to speak. Closed it again. And walked out of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**No reviews again... ****_sigh_****... But that's alright. I can't not write this story. But I really do want to know what you guys think about this story! So please, just take a minute and leave a review. Note: I don't own Sherlock.**

* * *

"Sherlock, pick a color."

"John, I don't know what the difference between lavender and lilac is!"

"Just close your eyes and point to one!"

"I _really _don't think this is the way to go about redecorating a room."

"I wonder if she even likes purple..." John held the two nearly identical paint samples up to the light, a slight frown etched into his face. Sherlock groaned.

"How the hell are _we_ supposed to know how to decorate a fifteen-year-old girl's bedroom?" He asked, sitting on a box in the "guest" room- which was really just used as storage by Sherlock- with a sigh. "It's not like either of us ever _were_ teenage girls..."

"Well, we have to try," John replied, setting the paint sample cards down with the others. "It has to be done before she comes to live here. Now what do you think about white?"

Sherlock groaned and walked out of the room. "We can't do this, John!" He called back to his flat mate. "We're not _parents_!"

A twinge of... _something_... Hit John in the chest like a ton of bricks. Determination, was it? It had to be. He frowned and set the paint sample cards down and walked out to Sherlock.

"_You_, Sherlock, are Hannah's father," he said, the slightest bit of anger in his voice, though he tried to keep it down. "You _are _her parent. The people who raised her are dead, and _you're_ next in line for the job. So you'd better learn how to be a parent _before_ she gets out of the hospital, or we're all going to have a problem!"

Sherlock stared in disbelief at the usually calm and collected John. He had never heard such an outburst from him, and was... honestly, he was shocked.

John sighed and shook his head. "Purple or white, Sherlock?"

"...white." Sherlock grabbed his jacket and walked out of 221B.

* * *

She had green eyes, the doctors told Sherlock. They looked her up online and found her. Not mint green, like Sherlock's eyes sometimes looked- depending on the light- but emerald. A beautiful emerald green. They had showed him a picture of her. She stood by a lake with a young girl, no more than seven. Her eyes stood out more than anything about her, except, perhaps, her smile. So happy, so full of life... As Sherlock gazed at the photograph, he wondered if he'd ever see her smile look like that. Then he began to wonder if he'd ever see her eyes at all and he mentally slapped himself.

She _would_ wake up. She had to. The doctors said she would eventually. They _had_ to be right.

For once in his life, although it wasn't entirely voluntary, Sherlock was trusting someone other than himself.

The doctor held his hand out for the photograph. He had brown hair, tousled. He ran his hair through it often. Baby blue eyes that showed stress and fatigue. He'd been at the hospital early this morning, and there had been an emergency he assisted with. There were lines from a ring on his left ring finger- he had been married, but didn't wear the ring. Divorce. Recent. Sherlock walked away from the man with the picture in his hand and went to see his daughter.

She was the same, almost. Her heartbeat was more stable than it had been the first day they came. That was good. Her minor cuts and bruises were healing well. She had had surgery, on her shoulder blade. She was doing better, but was still bad.

Sherlock just stood there in that suffocatingly stuffy room, not knowing what to do. Should he go to her? Or should he leave? He had no clue what her feelings towards him would be when she woke, and to be honest, he was a bit apprehensive to find out. He contemplated sitting down in the chair next to her bed. He thought about running, running as fast and as far as he could. Sherlock turned the options over in his head, then finally set the picture down on the small table next to her bed and left the hospital, a strange feeling settling coldly in his stomach as he strode down the street. Was that... It was guilt! Why did he feel _guilty_? For not staying at the hospital? For yelling at John? As he got to the bank of the Thames and looked out at the water, he realized what caused the feeling.

Fifteen years. He had had a daughter fifteen years ago, and he hadn't even known. He had missed fifteen years of her life- missed her growing up, missed her mistakes, missed her accomplishments. Missed her successes and her failures. He had missed every moment a father was supposed to be there for. And he felt_ guilty_ about it! He ran a hand through his dark hair, guilt clouding his eyes. He had missed everything...

He was determined not to miss any more. He would bring her _everywhere,_ to work and... Yeah, to work. He didn't go anywhere else that much unless he was on a case.

Speaking of a case, he was desperate for something to do. Some puzzle to solve, some murder to fawn over for the next week. He wasn't bored- no, not at all- he was just itching for a case.

But maybe after Hannah's room was done.

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**Yes, it was a bit short, I know. I'm quite busy looking at colleges! Please review, I want to know what you think!**


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